Brian McGilloway - Gallows Lane

She heard the thud of his car door, the roar of the engine, the scattering of grit as the car sped off. As she stood up, she caught a final glimpse of his rear lights receding on the road ahead. She could not remember the registration number — in fact, she thought for some reason that there had been no registration plate.

Finally, she made her way up to the road and flagged down a minibus driver, who brought her to the hospital.

‘It was like. .’ she said, reflecting on her attacker’s failure to complete his planned assault. ‘It was like he couldn’t get a. . a thingy.’

Several minutes later, I sat at the nurses’ workstation in the middle of the ward, while the young registrar who had examined Rebecca filled me in on her injuries. The first question I wanted answered was the one Rebecca’s father had tried to ask me: had his daughter been raped?. According to the registrar, who introduced herself as Lauren, the evidence supported the girl’s story. She had been beaten but, crucially, had not been sexually assaulted.

‘She’s lost her virginity, though,’ Lauren said. ‘Doesn’t want her dad to know. Happened with some boy when she was thirteen.’

‘What about her injuries? Anything serious?’

‘Enough for us to keep her for the day, I think,’ she said, brushing her hair back from her face. As she did so, I noticed that she had painted her nails with blue polish, over which she had painted tiny stars.

‘She’ll be okay, though?’ I asked.

She nodded, biting at her thumbnail. ‘Should be.’ She paused for a moment, then continued. ‘Not really my place to say it, but there’s something systematic in the pattern of her bruising,’ she said.

‘Meaning?’

‘The bruises from her attacker’s fists are really close together. And the lividity seems uniform across them.’

‘I’ll welcome any suggestions, Doctor. Say what’s on your mind.’

The register took a deep breath, as if reconciling herself to something, then spoke. ‘I don’t want to colour your investigation, but — those punches were delivered by someone used to hitting hard and repeatedly. Someone who does it frequently. If I were you, I’d be looking for a boxer.’

She looked at me, her eyes empty of expression. ‘But that’s only my opinion.’

‘Good enough for me, Doctor,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

In the car on the way home, I told Williams that the doctor’s comments supported Rebecca’s story.

‘Is it the same man?’ she asked.

‘Same MO, certainly. Same failure to follow through on the attack. Different car description, though.’

‘He could have changed his car,’ she suggested. ‘Judging by the state he left Karen Doherty in, his last car must have been covered in blood off his clothes alone.’

‘So we work on the assumption it’s the same person each time. But keep an open mind.’

‘Fair enough. So, let me think; do we know any boxers?’ Williams asked, her eyes flashing with anger.

‘We’ll bring him in. See what he says,’ I agreed, though she had not actually named McDermott. ‘But his alibi still stands from the last attack, Caroline. And anyway, his tattoo doesn’t sound like the one we’re after.’

‘But he has form for beating up a woman, and is training daily to beat the shit out of other men.’

‘Agreed,’ I said, attempting to placate her before her anger grew further.

She looked at me, then turned and looked out of the side window as I drove. ‘Jesus Christ!’ she spat.

As I thought of my own child, I shared her anger. And I reflected on Rebecca Purdy’s final comment to us. It seemed sad somehow that this girl, barely more than a child herself, should be subjected to a form of attack she had not adequate vocabulary to describe.

Peter McDermott was lifted within the hour. Williams specifically requested that she be the one to put him in the car. He sat in our interview room in training bottoms and a T-shirt. His legs were spread apart, arm arched, his hand gripping his knee, which jittered seemingly uncontrollably. He had been training in a boxing club in Ballybofey when he had been picked up, Williams told me. She had taken some pleasure in arresting him in front of the other fighters.

He had finished tea he had been given when brought in and had begun picking the cup apart, the polystyrene breaking into tiny balls between his thick workman’s fingers. I pitied whoever came up against him in a tournament. I pitied even more the two girls who suffered such brutality at these or similar hands.

Williams started by asking him again about Karen Doherty, though we had established by this time that he had a seemingly secure alibi.

‘This is shit and you know it,’ he replied when asked where he was the night she died. ‘Next question.’

‘What about last night? Where were you last night, Mr McDermott?’

‘I was out at the club,’ he said, and my adrenaline immediately kicked in. Williams must have felt the same for she glanced at me.

‘What club?’ she managed to ask, her voice dry.

‘My boxing club. I told you, I’m in training. You can ask any of the guys down there. You saw most of them there today when you lifted me.’

‘What time did you leave the club?’ I asked.

‘Eleven-thirty, thereabouts,’ he said, shrugging slightly. ‘Why? What have I done now?’

‘A fifteen-year-old girl was assaulted last night in Letterkenny, Mr McDermott — probably by the same person who killed Karen Doherty. So, where were you after your club?’

He looked from Williams to me and back. His knee was pumping up and down frantically now, his arm muscles flexing visibly as he tightened his grip, the green dragon tattoo rippling across his forearm, as if alive. His shoulders seemed to hunch involuntarily, his elbows tight against his sides, his free hand balling and releasing in rhythm with his knee.

‘Are youse kidding me? You brought me in about a fucking fifteen-year-old. I’m no paedo. This is a fucking joke. Get me a lawyer.’ He folded his arms across his chest which heaved with each breath. His jaw muscles flexed as though he were chewing on something hard.

‘Do you think you need a lawyer?’ Williams asked.

‘Yeah. I’m gonna press charges against you shower of shite for false imprisonment.’

‘You’re not being falsely imprisoned, Mr McDermott; you’re helping us with our inquiries.’

‘And why the fuck should I do that?’ he asked.

‘Because someone is attacking teenage girls. Someone of your size, with your profile, even a tattoo, just like you. And while they’re still on the loose, you’re still under suspicion.’ I then added, ‘Do you like your neighbours?’

He cocked an eyebrow, immediately suspicious.

‘Why?’

‘Do you know what happens to people when it comes out they’re on the sex offenders’ register? Do you think you’ll be welcome long?’

He leapt from his seat and roared. ‘You’ve nothing. You’ve fu-’ He did not, however, get a chance to finish his statement, for Caroline Williams had already drawn her baton and cracked him swiftly on the collarbone. She quickly followed it with a second strike to his upper back, the thump of the stick against the solid pack of his muscle sickeningly loud. McDermott crashed to the floor, knocking his chair skittering across the room.

He rose unsteadily, his body visibly jittering with adrenaline, his chest and shoulders heaving. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he spat.

Williams had already strengthened her position, widening her stance slightly, baton raised, her own frame shaking with anger. She was breathing heavily, her face damp with sweat, her eyes hard. As best I could, I positioned myself between her and McDermott.

‘Mr McDermott,’ I managed. ‘You train with these people. Ask around.’